The Big Kiss-Off of 1944: A Jack LeVine Mystery by Andrew Bergman Page B

I got to Smithtown, there was nobody home. Fenton’s pal had taken off the night before.”
    “With the films, of course?”
    “With all kinds of things. This guy plays in the big leagues and I have a strong feeling that you and me are pretty small potatoes to him.”
    “Perhaps. Did you get his name?”
    “Maybe. You ever hear the name Al Rubine?”
    “No.” There was a longish pause, so I held the phone with my neck and took the opportunity to pull my pants on.
    “Do you think we should just tell the police?”
    “Tell them what?”
    “Well … that Fenton had a partner who probably killed him, and that the man is on the loose and dangerous.”
    “Miss Lane, a blackmailer knows fifty people with perfectly good and honorable reasons for killing him. Fenton probably shared that house in Smithtown with a partner. Once Fenton was killed, it made sense for his partner to get out with the firm’s assets intact. It’s not inconceivable that the partner killed him, but I’m sure as hell not going to the police about it with zero evidence. They’re going to want to know why I’m interested. And my interest—and here’s the ironic part—is that I was hired by you to keep the matter from going to the police. You want their help, be my guest. But that’s where I get off.”
    “So you’re writing me off?”
    “I’m not doing anything of the kind. All I’m saying is Rubine, or whoever, seems to have bigger fish to fry. We’ll give him a few weeks. In the meantime, there’s nothing much to do but sit and hope he gets hit by a truck.”
    “But what if he goes to Butler?”
    What the hell. If I didn’t trust her now, I might as well drop the case. She was holding out on me, that was for sure, but I didn’t think she was doing so to harm me. If I explained things right, maybe she wouldn’t get hysterical.
    “Miss Lane, he has gone to Butler.”
    I heard a kind of “fffft” on the other end, a constricted kind of gasp.
    “Good God.”
    “Now look, Miss Lane, you’re still in good shape. All Butler knows is that somebody in his show made some films, but he doesn’t know who.”
    “But he will know.”
    “Maybe yes, maybe no. By funny coincidence, Butler called me to get the films back for him.”
    “You’re working for him?”
    “I’m working for me, Miss Lane. He paid me real money to get those movies, but all he wants is to get this guy off his back. And that’s all you want, or do you want something else?”
    “No.” Her voice was very, very small.
    “Okay. Now you and Butler want the films back. If I pick up the films, there’s a very good chance nobody will ever see them. If you want I can destroy the prints and screw up the negatives so badly that Butler couldn’t tell you from Minnie Mouse, if he wanted to make prints from them. If he does want prints, then I don’t know what the hell kind of a deal he’s pulling. As far as I know, he wants to pay somebody off and keep his good name as a gentleman of Broadway.”
    “God, you’re so rational, Mr. LeVine.”
    “Private dicks aren’t known for being great abstract thinkers, Miss Lane, but we can get around town without a map. Now I’ll try and speak to you on Monday. Spend the weekend with your boyfriend; go boating in the park or something. Just don’t drive yourself nuts over this. We’ll find a way out.”
    “Thanks for everything, Mr. LeVine.”
    “I haven’t done anything but walk into some empty rooms.”
    “No,” and she still sounded very scared, “you’ve been a real comfort.”
    “That’s very kind. Good night, and take it easy.”

 
    B UTLER’S RECEPTIONIST waved me right into the main office. “He’s expecting you.”
    I knocked once and walked in. Butler was at his little wall safe.
    “Here for your winnings, Jack?” I got the marquee smile.
    “Something like that.” I settled myself into one of those burgundy chairs and lit up a cigarette. “Mr. Butler, do you know a Philadelphia banker named Eli W.